


Weight of My Scars

by saekokato



Series: Work in Progress Amnesty [1]
Category: Bandom: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekokato/pseuds/saekokato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dude. You have to marry a guy you've just met because your best friends signed you up with a free mail order spouse service. Thing. And you have to do it before the week is up. What part of this isn't a fucking romance novel?""</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight of My Scars

**Author's Note:**

> WIP Amnesty. Minimal beta work.

Frank shows up on a Wednesday. It is a typical, boring Wednesday. Well, boring aside from the fact that one of Bob's oldest friends is getting married on Sunday, and Bob still hasn't found a date. He would go stag, but Andy has already threatened his life via Patrick should Bob even make an attempt to show up alone. Bob knows Andy's valid threats from his idle ones – mainly that Andy only has the former.

"Pete! Would you sit the fuck down already?" Bob snaps. He was up late the night before working on some calculations, which means he now has a headache, and he has a shift at the record store in an hour. Pete's manic inability to be still is severely threatening Bob's calm. "Did they put fucking jumping beans in your coffee?"

"He had tea this morning," Mikey points out calmly. He doesn't look up from his phone. Bob just hopes he's not in the middle of some weird Way mating ritual with Alicia. Bob doesn't really give a damn how the Way brothers conduct their relationships; he just doesn't want said conduct happening in the middle of his kitchen.

"Yeah, Pete mentioned feeling a bit off, so we decided a day or two without coffee might help," Gerard adds. He doesn't look up from his sketch pad. Probably another sketch of Pete. "He doesn't want to be sick for the wedding."

"No, we wouldn't want that," Bob mutters. Fucking wedding. He had planned on asking Brian, but the fucker had suddenly reattached himself to Matt's hip. Apparently the romance in the air had sent that particular on-again, off-again straight back into on-again. Some best friends those two turned out to be.

"Ah, still no date, Bobert?" Pete asks, both loudly and cheerfully. If he hadn't turned out to be such an awesome guy and someone who made Gerard smile like the fucking sun, Bob would have gladly killed Pete long ago for being both loud and cheerful. All the fucking time. But especially when Bob was tired and headachy.

Pete flops down in the chair next to Gerard, knee jittering at a speed closing in on sonic and steals Mikey's coffee mug intent on more than a sip. "Nothing from the service?"

"You should have heard something by know," Mikey reminds Bob. Mikey swats Pete and steals back his mug all without looking up from his phone. Bob totally admires Mikey's excellent hand-eye coordination, especially when it comes minus the eye portion of the equation.

"Haven't heard a thing," Bob repeats for the hundredth time. And Bob's honestly happy about that. Blind dates never go well for him. He usually feels lucky if all he ends up with by the end of the night is some aversion to a former favorite food. "You two sure you used the right email?"

"They didn't ask for an email." Gerard looks up from his sketch pad, blinking rapidly. "Right, Pete?"

"Wanted his number and address though," Pete agrees.

"My address?" Bob stares at the two of them. Who stare back innocently. Bob tires to garner up some surprise at this latest turn of shitty news, but he's dealing with Gerard and Pete. Who are two of the smartest people Bob knows (and he knows a lot of intelligent people), except they never seem to use said intelligence when it comes to their brilliant ideas.

Bob puts his head down on the table in defeat.

"Hey, it won't be so bad! Maybe you'll find the man of your dreams!" Gerard exclaims. Bob tries his best to remember that Gerard is one of several people that Bob now knows who honestly believe fairytale creatures – like unicorns – exist. Without the aid of hallucinogens.

"I'll settle for a date on Sunday," Bob mutters into the table top. And for his headache to go away. "A single, gay, non-homicidal, non-stalker-type guy."

"You sure you're not aiming too high?" Mikey asks idly. Bob just sighs.

The doorbell rings in the middle of Bob's contemplation of the misery that has become his life since leaving academia for the "real world." Pete bounds off to answer the door with a cheerful, "I'll get it!"

Mikey and Gerard, who have abandoned, respectively, his cell phone and his thousandth sketch of Pete, are discussing the likelihood that another Spiderman movie could possibly not suck as much ass as the rest of it's contemporaries (and Bob contemplating finding new neighbors that don't have a key to his door and a need to raid his kitchen forty times a day) when Pete comes into the room with a guy his size with dark hair and about twenty times the tattoos.

"Hey, Bob! It was for you!"

"Funny that, considering this is my apartment."

Pete just waves his remark off. "This is Frank. He's from the service." Pete flops back down next to Gerard.

Bob blinks. "They really gave you my address."

Frank shrugs. "That's how Saporta runs his business."

"Wait, wait. You two went to Gabe?" Mikey asks. He's staring at Pete and Gerard like they've each grown another head. Not an unusual response when dealing with the two of them, but Mikey's usually the guy to handle the crazy when no one else can.

"Relax, Mikeyway. Gabe does awesome work. This is a good thing, Mikey. You'll see," Gerard says quietly. The last time Bob heard Gerard use that tone, Bob gave up several years of research and his doctorial pursuit to move to New Jersey.

While Mikey is busy gapping at his brother like a fish, Pete steals his coffee, successfully this time.

Bob's stomach is starting to churn suspiciously like it had when he told his advisor he was leaving Cal Sci to teach troubled kids how to play the drums, among other things. "What am I missing here?" He looks between his friends and Frank hoping for a reasonable explanation.

Frank smiles at him, which Bob is concerned to find oddly comforting. "Hi, I'm Frank Iero. Your soon-to-be husband."

|-|

"You ordered a husband?" Ray makes it sound so bad, like Bob was dropped on his head as a child and instead of being taught the difference between right and wrong, his parents catered to his every whim to the point that normal human interaction had become impossible.

Not that that had actually happened to Bob, but he's heard Ray use that tone of voice with Pete and Gerard enough to understand Ray's meaning. "How the hell did you manage that one?"

"This isn't my fault," Bob protests. "It wasn't even my idea."

It really isn't. It was all Mikey's idea for him to try the online dating service. Bob had tried to explain that while that may have worked for Mikey and Alicia, the likelihood that the same action on Bob's part would yield a similar reaction was highly unlikely. Especially once Pete and Gerard were brought into it. Pete and Gerard are totally the ones to blame – Bob _hadn't_ even known that mail-order spouses actually existed, much less how to end up with one.

Plus, Pete, Gerard and Mikey were the ones with the links to Saporta and his weird ass free mail-order spouse service.

"Right." Ray exchanges a glance with Patrick before looking pointedly at Frank, who is talking animatedly with Pete and Mikey over in the punk-rock section of the store. "Then how do you explain him?"

"I don't," Bob sighs. He taps his pencil on the pad of figures he had been going over for the store before his bosses decided to gang up on him. "I just blame the Wonder Triplets."

Patrick nods. "This isn't the first time Pete's been involved with something like this, you know?" His fingers are tapping out a counter-rhythm to Bob's pencil taps.

"God, _that's_ what Andy and Joe are all about?" Ray asks. He sounds like a light bulb just went off in his head, and Bob's just as lost as he was before.

Patrick shrugs. "Maybe. All I really know is Pete knew both of them, sent them up with this dating service, and now they're all happily ever after and shit."

And getting married in four days. Bob's happy for the two of them, he really is. He's known Andy just about forever, since they were both still playing drums in Chicago before college and Jersey and life happened, and Joe seems like a really great guy, but their wedding is the catalyst for this entire mess.

They're totally the ones to blame.

"All I wanted was a hot date to the wedding so Andy wouldn't kill me," Bob groans. He drops his head to the counter so he doesn't have to watch Pete give him another completely obvious thumbs up. Frank giggles every time Pete does it.

Ray pats him on the shoulder. "Look at it this way: you'll have a date for pretty much anything for the rest of your life."

"I hate you," Bob informs him after a short pause for contemplation. "Every last one of you contented not-single assholes."

"We know." Patrick doesn't sound at all bothered by this.

|-|

"So," Bob starts, trailing off when he realizes he has no idea what to say to Frank. The two of them are back in Bob's apartment, because Ray thought it would be best for the two of them to bond. Or something. Ray's tangents can be as indecipherable as Gerard's and Bob, despite his relatively high IQ, has no chance in following either when they really get going.

All Bob knows is he's stuck in his apartment with a stranger who Bob has exactly one week to acquire a marriage license with because of a contract his neighbors signed in his name when Bob mentioned being a little desperate in regards to finding a date for the wedding on Sunday. At this point, Bob really, really wishes he'd never left Cal Sci. Fuck saving lives. Right now all Bob wants to do is save what's left of his brain and, possibly, his dignity.

He's willing to cut that loss if things were to return to normal.

"So," Frank repeats. He's smirking and leaning against the wall to Bob's small living room. His arms are crossed over his chest, drawing Bob's attention to the play of the dimming light across Frank's tattoos and the way his tiny t-shirt stretches taunt across his chest. "You have something to say, husband mine, or is something else on your mind?"

Bob scowls. Frank may be the hottest thing to cross his vision in the better half of forever, but so far his personality leaves a lot to be desired. "I'm not your husband..."

"Yet."

"...and I have better things to do with my time than play along with Pete and Gerard's games," Bob continues like Frank hadn't bothered interrupting. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the front door. "You can take your shit and leave. Door's that way."

Bob pushes past Frank into the living room, picking up a marker and going to the whiteboard he had been working on the night before. He has equations to solve, and they won't do it by themselves.

(Bob knows. He'd spent the majority of his undergrad years wishing that they would as he stared at his notebooks while scarfing down ramen.)

"Whoa, hold up, buddy. You signed the contract. For better or worse, we're stuck with each other." Frank follows Bob into the room and steps in front of the whiteboard so that Bob has to look at him. "You might as well accept that fact. The sooner you do, the sooner..."

"We can fall in love and live happily ever after?" Bob snorts. He is a scientist, he doesn't believe in the romance crap Hallmark shovels into society's collective face. He certainly isn't looking for whatever it is Pete and Gerard thought they were going to accomplish here.

Frank echoes Bob's snort. "Please. Love isn't that easy. I was going to say that the sooner you accept that we're going to be married for at least a year, the sooner we can get some dinner. I'm starving, and I sure as hell can't seduce someone on an empty stomach."

Bob blinks.

Frank laughs at him. "Yeah, Romeo. Food? Sustenance? The shit that gives your brain the power to function properly? You do remember what that is, right?"

"Of course I know what food is. I'm not an idiot," Bob snaps. His fingers clench around the marker in his hand, and he unconsciously takes a step forward.

Frank puts his hands up, smile sliding from his face. "Whoa, sorry. Didn't mean to hit a sore spot." When Bob doesn't move, he continues, "Seriously, I wasn't calling you an idiot, man, just joking. My mama always said I had a twisted sense of humor."

Bob takes a couple quick steps backward, dropping the marker to the ground. He rubs a hand over his face. "No, sorry, my fault. I shouldn't have..."

Frank smiles at him again, this time like he had when they met, and Bob trails off again. "Hey, no worries. We're still getting to know one another, we're bound to hit some sore spots. How about we order something in, and we can talk. Get to know each other at little."

 _Make this situation a little closer to normal. For the both of us._

Bob hears the words Frank doesn't say, and that's what makes him agree to dinner. He's pretty sure he should be tossing Frank out on his ass and scouring over that contract for a way out of this fucking scheme, but. Bob isn't sure, but something like whatever it is that prods him in the right directions with his equations, that told him to get the fuck out of California, is telling him to take a chance with this.

Besides, what's dinner? And he really does need a date for Sunday.

Bob grabs the menu for his favorite Italian place, which Frank proceeds to proclaim to be "the best in the entire fucking city, man. Seriously, this is the only place my grandmother would eat out at, they're that good," like Bob wasn't already aware of its virtues.

They set the table while they're waiting for the delivery. Frank fills the time by asking Bob inane questions about his favorite bands and his favorite color (Thrice and purple) and answering them himself without any prompting on Bob's part (Bouncing Souls and orange).

Frank finds a half-full bottle of red wine in Bob's fridge when he goes looking for something to drink and pours them both a glass with a big pleased smile on his face. He looks really happy, and Bob wants to ask him why – it was only a bottle of wine that Brian, Matt and he started a couple of nights ago to celebrate Matt's new job – but Frank distracts him by asking about the whiteboards in the living room.

So Bob talks about the equations that kept popping up whenever he wasn't actively thinking about something else. How they had bugged him for weeks and weeks and weeks. How he'd started working them out on the sign board at the store, and Ray and Patrick had bought him the whiteboards so that Bob would work on them at home and stop scaring their mathematically challenged customers – and employees.

Dinner arrives as Bob tells Frank about how Bob thinks he might have made a breakthrough before he passed out the night before. A small breakthrough that Bob doesn't think will lead to much of anything, but a breakthrough nonetheless.

Frank insists on paying for dinner. He even goes as far as slapping Bob's hands away from his wallet, won't even let Bob chip in for the tip. "Dude, you're supplying the place. I'll supply the food!" He hands the delivery guy a couple of twenties and bounces away with the takeout bags.

The delivery guy gives Bob a wink and a thumbs up before he goes. Bob blushes but isn't entirely sure why. Usually he glares and shuts the door in the faces of overly nosy delivery people.

Over spaghetti and meatballs and fake-chicken parmesan ("I'm a vegan, dude. My great-aunt Lisa still thinks that means I only eat fish. Though I'd totally be tempted back to meat if Marcelli's stopped working the vegan angle."), Frank tells Bob about his experiences in college, where he studied psychology and played in a thousand different bands. How some of those bands had lead to his most recent one, which had managed to make it halfway through the recording of an album before splitting over irreconcilable differences a couple of months earlier. Frank talks about how the split was the hardest thing he'd ever gone through but that he thinks it's giving him the freedom to platform to something new and exciting.

In return, Bob tells Frank about leaving Chicago with a degree in advanced theoretical mathematics for Cal Sci, where he earned his Master's and how he'd gotten halfway through his doctorate before he met Gerard and Mikey. It'd taken Gerard three months to talk Bob into leaving Cal Sci for New Jersey, where Gerard, Mikey, and Brian were working on Three Cheers, an educational facility geared to keep kids off the streets and help adults find a better life through gaining a more advanced skill set. Just three months before Bob gave up a promising career in academia and moved to Jersey.

Bob admits that he isn't as disappointed in the results as he'd expected himself to be.

They eat, then clean up, then move into the living room as they talk, one story, one viewpoint, one opinion for another, and Bob is surprised to see that it is after two when he looks up at the clock after a particularly funny story about Frank, his neighbor's evil cat and a pair of hula hoops.

"Shit, I have to open the store tomorrow," Bob groans. Fuck, Bob can't believe they'd spent the last six hours talking. Or that he has to be up in four to be to the store on time.

"So do I," Frank agrees. "Well, not with you. I work at the bookstore next to _Pretty. Odd._? The club/lounge thing out on 5th?"

"Brendon and Spencer's place?" Bob asks.

"Yeah, you know it?"

"I knew Jon, Ryan's partner, back in Chicago," Bob explains. "Didn't really have much of a choice but to get to know that entire lot when I moved here."

(Ha, that's an understatement. He has no fucking clue what is actually going on with the four of them, but he suspects "happily committed orgy-relationship" might be a good place to start. Also, Brendon can be more of an annoying fucker than either Gerard or Pete and Jon spoils the kid rotten.)

The last of his sentence is almost cut off by his yawn. He'd love to call in sick just so he can catch up on his sleep, but Three Cheers doesn't pay him nearly enough to make rent and his student loans _and_ food in a month. Plus, Patrick would probably eat him for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

"We should probably go to bed," Frank laughs. He stands up and pulls Bob to his feet, too, pushing Bob in the direction of the bedroom. "Goodnight, Romeo. I expect coffee in the morning."

|-|

Bob wakes up in the morning to find his couch slept on, his coffee pot half-full and a note from Frank underneath a dirty mug. Apparently, We're So Starving opens earlier than Cork Tree. And, after making his huge travel mug (a gag gift from Spencer and Brendon when Jon described Bob's zombie impression before his first huge coffee of the day back in college) up to go and taking a quick sip, apparently Frank makes a damn good cup of coffee.

Idly, as Bob makes his way through the pre-Rush hour rush hour, he thinks that's a good quality for a husband to have.

Ray's already at the store when Bob gets there. This isn't unusual, considering Thursday mornings are always slow, and Ray likes to make Bob go over the books. Ray does it every week just to make sure Patrick's weird and random musical finds haven't pushed them into the red. That hasn't happened once in the two and a half years that Bob's been working for them, but Ray's something of a pragmatist.

Ray's also a gossip, Bob reminds himself when Ray plops a cream cheese and jelly bagel in front of Bob and says, "You look like shit. Late night?" He even wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Bob scowls. "Pervert."

"Pot, kettle." Ray waves off the insult. Literally. The motion leaves a drop of grape jelly on his, no doubt, vintage Iron Maiden t-shirt. Right above the spiky M. "Seriously, Bob. This is the first time you've had a guy back to your apartment who wasn't Brian or one of your million other 'just friends' friends in months. Not even you can be that fond of your right hand."

Bob pointedly takes a bite of his bagel and turns back to the books. He knows that if he can ignore Ray long enough, someone will come into the store and distract him, leaving Bob to not answer any ridiculous and/or embarrassing questions.

"No way, man. You're talking about this. I don't care if Patrick buying that fucking hand bell collection puts us over budget for the rest of the _decade_ ," Ray tells him. He even grabs the accounting notebooks out of Bob's hands. Ray and Patrick like to do things the old fashioned way. At least, they do now after the computer crashed when Pete and Gerard "borrowed" it to look up something or other. Bob never asked what they had been doing, and he's pretty sure that he never, ever wants to know. "Talk."

Bob sighs. "Nothing happened. Really. We ordered dinner and talked. We went to sleep separately. He didn't even try for a hug, much less a kiss. End of story."

"Nope. You have details, and I want them. I have to report back to Patrick and you know how he gets." Ray fake shudders and Bob considers telling him to never, ever quit his day job. And not just for the fact that if Ray left Patrick and Bob to run Cork Tree by themselves, they would totally hunt him down and kill him. And as tough as Bob is, he's pretty sure that being a math genus would make things unpleasant for him in prison.

"When did you turn into a twelve-year-old girl?" Bob demands.

"About the same time Patrick said he loved me," Ray admits happily. He's got the sappy grin on his face that Pete calls his Patrick-smile. Sadly, it's a really good look for him, even if it does make Bob want to give him candy and pat his head like Ray's five.

Bob can never not do whatever it is that Ray wants him to do when he's got that smile on his face. A sad, sad fact that Ray has taken advantage of more than once to Bob's ultimate embarrassment. And, considering the shit Bob used to get into with Jepha, Bert, and Quinn back at Cal Sci, that's a mighty large weapon Ray wields.

So, Bob tells Ray all about dinner and Frank insisting that he pay and how they talked about everything they could think of and a few things Bob never would have if Frank hadn't brought it up first. Then Bob tells him about how Frank had just sent him off to bed without trying anything, which threw Bob after Frank's earlier throwaway comment about seduction. How the apartment was empty when Bob woke up, but Frank had made coffee and left a note.

"Huh," is all Ray says after Bob trails off. Bob glares at Ray until Ray shrugs. "It sounds like it was a good first date to me."

Bob boggles. He doesn't know how to handle this. First his boss and his boss's boyfriend, who also happen to be his neighbors, land him with a mail ordered spouse and now his other boss is taking everything in stride, like mail order spouses are an everyday occurrence. Of course, for all Bob knows, they totally are in Jersey. After all, Bob grew up in Chicago. Weird shit like this just didn't happen in Chicago.

At least not in his neighborhood. He'll have to ask Jon or Patrick about their own experiences.

"What? You wanted the guy to just jump you?" Ray hands back the accounting notebooks. "I'm going to give the guy credit for acting like a gentleman and not turning this into some sordid affair."

"Yes, please, make my life sound more like a fucking romance novel," Bob grumbles.

"Dude. You have to marry a guy you've just met because your best friends signed you up with a free mail order spouse service. Thing. And you have to do it before the week is up." Ray gives Bob his best I-know-you-didn't-practice-those-chords-like-you-promised-Johnny-and-I-am-disappointed-with-you look.

Ray's had a lot of practice with those looks considering the vast majority of Cork Tree's profits come from musical lessons. Ray teaches guitar and bass, which Patrick will cover on occasion when he isn't teaching lessons for flute, trumpet, violin, drums, piano, and every other oddball instrument he manages to locate. Bob's filled in for the drum lessons once or twice himself.

"What part of this _isn't_ a fucking romance novel?"

Bob just glares at Ray. "You're not helping. Asshole."

Ray shrugs again, starting to clear the counter of their breakfast debris. "I'm happily involved and not trapped in a Harlequin." He's just sweeping the last of the crumbs into the wastebasket when his first lesson comes crashing through the door. "Buck up, buddy. It could be worse: you could be marrying Pete."

Bob drops his head to the now clean counter. " _Hate_."

Ray pats his shoulder before turning away to greet...one of the Alexs. There were just too many of them for Bob to keep track of. Though this one is slightly older than the other three. "Hey, dude! Ready to rock? Awesome! Oh, Bob? Yeah, he's fine. Moping 'cause he didn't catch his date before said date rocked out the door this morning."

It didn't bear mentioning, honestly, but Bob really, really hated his life.

|-|

Bob was busy alphabetizing the stacks when Patrick came in at noon. Bob would have been surprised to see him (Thursdays were Patrick's day at Three Cheers, while Ray went on Tuesdays and Bob filled in afternoons on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays and mornings on Tuesdays and Saturdays) except Patrick was a notorious gossip and Ray hadn't had the chance to get near the phone all morning. Well, that and Gerard and Pete came tumbling into the store after him.

Bob fully believes that the headlines this morning should have read: Attention – Bob Bryar's Life is Hell.

"Bob! Dude! How'd last night go?" Pete plasters himself to Bob's back. At one time, even with an old lady in the store and all of his bosses, Bob would have tossed Pete off onto his ass. With as much physical damage as possible with a minimum of fuss. Now Bob just shifts until Pete isn't kneeing him in the kidneys and continues returning the Rolling Stones to their proper place. "Come on! Don't be like that, Bob! Do you like him? Does he like you? Did you guys get busy?"

"Wentz." Bob's blood pressure is not allowed to be this high this early in the day. Bob still has six hours at Three Cheers tonight after this shift. Also killing his boss's boyfriend is just bad career management. "Down."

Pete heaves a great put upon sigh, but slides off Bob's back. "Bob, seriously. How'd it go?"

"He isn't going to let up, dude," Ray tells Bob as he reaches over the case and pulls the stack of cds out of Bob's hand. "You'd be better off if you gave in gracefully."

Bob has to refrain from glaring at Ray again. For all Patrick's mellowed out in the last couple of years, the guy still has an impressive temper. "I am working, you know."

Patrick snorts. "Yeah. Because we pay you to alphabetize by artist then album."

"Maybe not. But you do pay me to keep the store running and that works better for all involved when we can find shit," Bob points out.

"OCD freak," Patrick cracks, following Ray further off into the stacks.

"Pot, kettle, Stump!" Bob calls after him. Bob turns around to find Gerard and Pete looking at him with matching hopefully, yet gleeful, expressions on their faces. Like they already know how his night went. Bob scowls and pushes past them to ring out the old lady. "I hate you both," he mutters as he passes.

Gerard cackles. Pete crows, "Bob's got a boyfriend! Bob's got a boyfriend!"

Bob rings up the old lady as he blushes. He wonders just how hard it could possibly be to kill them both and then hide the bodies. Maybe Brian would have some ideas.

"Don't worry, dear. Your friends are just happy for you," the old lady tells him as she collects her cds. Bob vaguely remembers her coming in a couple of weeks before for some Misfits and Ramones. "Besides, happy is a good look for you. You're much too handsome to be so sad." She even pats his hand before she shuffles for the door.

Bob stares down at his hand, wondering just when people had decided patting him was a good idea. Like his right hand is suddenly going to become a font of wisdom.

"Why thank you, dear!" The lady exclaims loudly a minute later.

Bob looks up to see Frank holding the door open for her. He's wearing the same clothes as yesterday, only now with added colorful and mismatching scarves. Bob recognizes Ross's influence.

"This is why I love this store! Such handsome, kind boys willing to act the gentleman for a lady. What did I do to deserve this?"

Frank laughs. "Happy happenstance, ma'am. I'm actually here to ask Bob on a date."

"Oh! You're the boyfriend! Lucky you, dear. If he wasn't gayer than a jockstrap, I'd have jumped him ages ago!" She pats Frank's arm then continues her shuffle down the sidewalk.

As soon as the door is shut behind her, Pete and Gerard are laughing their asses off. If they weren't holding each other up, they'd have been rolling between the Rock: A-M and the Punk: N-Z sections. If the two of them laugh any harder, they'll rock right into Patrick's life size Prince stand up – though heaven help them both if they rumpled it in anyway.

Not that Patrick is likely to notice any time soon, considering the way he and Ray are holding each other up in the back by the instruments. Despite the ick factor and the standing 'No making out in the store (Yes, Pete and Gerard, we mean you!)' rule, Bob almost wishes it was just the two of them making out.

Bob isn't even sure why he's friends with these people. So, instead of glowering at them all and promising to enact his just and fearful revenge, Bob goes back to organizing.

The area immediately behind the desk is always a mess. Off the top of his head, Bob can name about twenty things that are bound to be back there, usually piled on top of each other, including: bags – both paper and plastic – extra receipt paper, used receipts that had missed the ever overflowing trash bin, the ever overflowing trash bin, extra pamphlets that Patrick lets Andy display at the front of the store, paper towels, rags, cleaning solution, first aid kit, pre-orders, special orders, over 17 material, the display case (and extra boxes) for the few high end electronics Cork Tree carries, notebooks (some Bob's, some Patrick's or Ray's or Pete's or Gerard's, even though the last two fuckers didn't even _work_ there), a small whiteboard with "Eat Dick" permanently marked on it, and a boxed gerbil cage that's been holding up the laser printer longer than Bob's been in Jersey.

Bob still doesn't know the story behind the gerbil cage. He suspects Gerard, though.

"Hey, Bob."

Bob looks up from trying to wrestle the trash liner from its bin to see Frank half over the counter, peering down at him. "Yeah?"

"Wanna come to dinner with me?" Frank blinks a couple of times, like he's trying to bat his eyelashes or something, then he breaks into a grin that just lights up his face and makes his dark eyes pop and his hair is falling sort of haphazardly into them and Bob's breath sort of stutters in his chest.

 _Shit._

"Bob? Dude, you ok?"

Bob blinks a few times. "Wait, sorry. Whatever Ray had for lunch last week started growing extra arms or something."

Frank laughs. "Thought Toro seemed cleaner than that."

Bob snorts and finishes tying off the bag. "Yeah, he does that to throw people off. He and Patrick are total pigs."

"Fuck you, Bryar!" Patrick shouts from the other end of the store. Ray shushes him. So much for them making out and ignoring Bob's continued humiliation.

Frank laughs. "So, dinner?" He looks really hopeful. Bob isn't used to the people hitting on him being hopeful. It throws him.

"I. Sure," Bob starts. Then he remembers that he has a shift at Three Cheers from two until eight that night. "Shit. I can't. Thursday's are my long day; I'm working until eight."

Frank looks skeptical. "Really. Toro and Stump must be slave drivers."

"You have no idea," Bob comments dryly. He tosses the garbage bag over to the office door, where someone will have to pick it up to take it out to the dumpster if they want to get through. It makes a nasty squelch sound when it lands and Bob winces. He stands up as he turns back to Frank. "No, I have the two to eight shift at Three Cheers tonight. Drum lessons with the thirteen to twenty-three bracket, mostly."

"That's a pretty large bracket," Frank points out. He's still leaning against the counter and now that Bob's standing up too, Frank has to tilt his head up to look Bob in the eye.

"It's a really diverse group," Gerard breaks in. His face is still red from laughing and he's smirking as he walks up to the counter. Frank stands up straight and half turns toward him as he approaches. If Bob had ever felt like smacking Gerard, it'd have to have been right then. "Bob's been a huge boon to the program. We used to get a few kids every now and then willing to come in for more than one or two lessons, but then we drafted Bob. The music program alone has quadrupled in the last couple of years. Mostly because of Bob."

"Yeah!" Pete agrees. He, like a dog trained to a specific scent, has followed Gerard to the counter. "Bob's milkshake brings all the boys to the yard."

Bob can feel his entire body going red in embarrassment. He groans, "Pete, no. Just. No."

"Whatever, Bobert. It's true. You can't deny the truth!" Pete protests. He's hanging off of Gerard's shoulder and smirking at Bob.

"I don't deny the truth, Wentz, especially if it is presented in a logical and precise fashion. I do, however, deny the whimsical fancies of madmen," Bob glares. "Also, I have no milkshake and there are no boys in my yard."

"Wrong on both accounts, Bob," Ray tells him. He waggles his eyebrows when Bob turns to look at him. He and Patrick have also made their way back to the front of the store, most likely to help embarrass Bob as much as humanly possible. Patrick still has the cds Ray had taken from Bob in his hands.

Bob really needs to find new people to be around.

"Anyway, I meant to tell you yesterday, but Patrick needs to take your shift tonight," Gerard breaks in.

"Really," Bob not quite asks. Something smells fishy.

"I have a few extra hours of community service to finish up," Patrick explains. He sets the stack of cds down and starts organizing the front end displays.

Really, really fishy. "From March?" Bob asks incredulously.

Patrick has the grace to blush even as he nods.

"You still have community service hours from your little tantrum _last_ March?" Bob totally wouldn't put something like this past these guys, but for some reason he thought they'd be a little more subtle about it. "Hours you swore up and down on your _mother's_ grave, who isn't even _dead_ , that you had finished before June?"

"Shut up, Bryar, and go on your date," Ray orders. "Didn't your mother ever teach you about gift horses?"

Bob snorts. "Yeah, sure. But she sure as hell never mentioned anything about clowns." Ray just flips him off.

Frank looks about ready to laugh his ass off at all of them. Bob wants to hit something; so much for being smooth. "Dinner?"

Frank nods happily. "Awesome!"

"Bob's off at one!" Pete supplies. He's leaning on the counter and bouncing in a way that tells Bob he's actually hanging there and kicking his feet. Pete's a midget.

"I can wait," Frank tells him. He bounces in time with Pete, thankfully standing safely on the ground.

"No need!" Ray exclaims. He's gesturing wildly with his hands again. Pete just barely ducks as Ray's left hand swings wildly past. "Since Patrick's here, Bob can leave early!"

Bob resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. "You pay me by the hour," he reminds Ray.

"We'll fudge the hours." Ray smiles at Bob. Ray looks so pleased with himself, the solution, and possibly the entire situation, that even his hair look extra happy (which mostly involves a more extreme aversion to gravity than normal).

Bob wants to slap him.

"That's nice of you," Frank tells Ray.

"I'm a nice guy," Ray admits with a shrug.

"Enough for an extra hour?" Bob asks. He knows he won't get it, but sometimes it's just fun to just wind Ray up.

"Not that nice," Patrick snaps. He glares, alternating between Bob and Ray.

Plus, Patrick turns funny colors when he thinks someone is trying to pull one over on Ray. Or is picking on Ray. Or if they look at his hat funny. Patrick really does have something of a nasty temper.

Bob raises an eyebrow. "You know what, Patrick. You're the mean boss."

"Flattery will get you fired," Patrick deadpans.

Bob smirks at him before turning back to Frank. "Let me grab my bag and we can go."

Bob's bag appears on the counter between him and Frank. "Here you go!" Gerard exclaims from beside Bob.

Bob hadn't even seen him go into the office, nor had he heard the trash bag rustle. He takes the bag, swinging it onto his shoulder as he eyes Gerard suspiciously. "Whatever you're planning, Way, stop."

Gerard just squeezes Bob's shoulder. "Have fun, dude. We don't expect you back before midnight." He pulls Bob out from behind the counter and pushes him toward Frank and the door.

Bob stumbles over Pete's coat (because of course Pete is incapable of putting his shit in the office like everyone else does) and Frank catches him. "Sorry," he mumbles as he pulls himself upright again.

"No problem," Frank tells him with a smile. He doesn't let go of Bob's arm after he's steady again and Bob blushes at Pete's wolf whistle. "So, lunch first?"

Bob flips Pete off as he ushers Frank to the door (Bob's a genius – he can totally multitask). "What? You expect me to spend the rest of the day with you?"

"Hoping, really," Frank admits. His cheeks look a little flushed, though that could totally be a trick of the light. He holds the door open for Bob, using his grip on Bob's arm to guide him through.

"Oh." Bob blinks as he steps into the sunshine. He thinks for a moment and finds that he really wouldn't mind spending the day with Frank. "Ok."

Frank steps out onto the sidewalk beside Bob. The door slides shut with hardly a sound – if this had been the week before, everyone in a three block radius would have heard the awful grinding screech of the door closing. Bob still isn't even sure how the door had been making that sound, he just knows that WD-40 had delivered the killing blow quite satisfactorily.

"Awesome." Frank bounces a few times. "So. Any place in particular you'd like to go?"

"Anywhere those four can't find me." Bob glares back through the window. Pete, Gerard, and Ray are all waving at Bob, bright smiles on each of their faces. Patrick is pulling his trucker hat lower on his face, but Bob can still see his amused smirk.

"Sweet. I know just the place." Frank gives Bob's arm one last squeeze before he turns and starts off down the sidewalk. "You're gonna love this."

Bob watches Frank move off for a moment. He thinks he just might after all.

|-|

Frank takes Bob to this tiny deli decorated in artsy neon colored swirls about seven blocks from Cork Tree and three from Pretty. Odd. It's a little hole in the wall place that Bob's passed a thousand and five times before, but never bothered to stop in. Which is unfortunate, considering they make a ham/tomato/Swiss on wheat that Bob would kill over.

He tells Frank as much.

Frank smiles knowingly over his vegan-something-or-other subroll. "I'm pretty sure that's why they keep it on the downlow."

Bob nods thoughtfully. "Homicide generally isn't the side dish of choice."

Frank giggles. Bob doesn't find that endearing. He especially doesn't find the way the corners of Frank's eyes crinkle or how he ducks his head so that his hair falls in his eyes as he giggles cute. Because that just isn't what Bob looks for in a guy.

Bob doesn't do cute.

Frank pushes his hair out of his eyes. He's still smiling when he asks, "What do you do for fun? I mean, when you manage a day off."

Bob shrugs. "I haven't really had an actual day off, day off in... Well, probably since I started working at Cork Tree." Holidays totally don't count, either. Especially when those holidays include being forced to either the Way household or the Toro household because he can't afford the airfare back to Chicago. Anytime Bob has to be on for parents, especially mothers, means it isn't a day off.

"If I have a few hours, I usually run errands or do laundry." Bob should really do that again soon, considering the dirty pile in his closet is starting to look more like a sentient life form than actual laundry.

"You do laundry for fun." Frank's sandwich is stopped halfway to his mouth in his shock.

Bob snorts. "No. I do laundry so I don't accidentally end up creating something that'd kill me in my sleep."

Frank laughs. "Right. Right. Understandable. But, seriously. What do you do for fun?"

"Work on my equations, mostly." Bob shrugs. Not many people believe him, but he does. Actually, many people believe that math beyond the average uses of addition and subtraction is useless, so he's come to straight up ignoring most people. "Sometimes I'll fill in for a friend's band or I'll catch a show that Mikey is promoting or recommends."

"You play for anyone I'd have heard?" Frank asks. Considering what he'd told Bob the night before, then, yes. Frank probably has heard of Bob's friends' bands. Hell, he's probably have heard Bob play before, but Bob isn't going to be the one to bring that up.

Bob shrugs again. "Mostly hardcore groups, but I've done a few punk shows at Pretty. Odd. Nothing big."

"Modest, too," Frank snorts. He's finished his vegan-something-or-other sub and now is picking through their shared pile of sweet potato fries.

Bob blinks, the last of his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"I asked the guys about you this morning. Spencer said that you could be a rock god on the drums if you didn't spend most of your time playing with numbers," Frank explains. "Then Jon said that you'd have to not spend the rest of your time split between teaching kids how to play and doing free sound for Pretty. Odd. and half a dozen other clubs around town.

"Brendon just rolled his eyes a lot. Said that you were too modest for your own good."

"And that's coming from Urie?" Bob asks skeptically. Brendon Urie is one of the most modest people Bob has ever met – the only reason Bob knows about half the instruments that Urie can play is because he is forever coming to Three Cheers to show the kids that, "Dude! The ukulele is totally a cool instrument!" Bob thinks the jury is still out on that one.

Frank shrugs. "Brendon doesn't say that shit about many people. Neither do Spencer or Jon." Frank isn't looking at Bob any longer, just picking a fry apart over his plate. His shoulders are tense and starting to huddle in the vicinity of his ears.

Bob frowns and pops the last of his sandwich into his mouth to stall for sometime. He hadn't meant to hit a nerve, mostly he'd been bullshitting, but it was pretty obvious that he had. Bob knew that those four were really close knit and anyone, especially employees, that stuck around for long enough ended up adopted into their little family (and by little Bob meant the sum of the total number of employees and their friends/significants/families that seemed to grow exponentially by the year). Obviously Frank had been so adopted and felt similarly about his new family as they did about him.

Bob clears his throat to catch Frank's attention. It takes a minute, but Frank finally looks up at him. Bob smiles at him and a small bit of the wariness in Frank's eyes fades.

"That wasn't a crack against Urie. He's a good kid," Bob says.

"I like to think so," Frank informs him.

Bob laughs. "Jon's always had good taste – none of them would have lasted this long with him if they weren't good people."

For a second Bob flashes on the image of a sculpture making something beautiful out of ice – the simple, long thought out decisions of where to make the next tap so to not destroy the entire block – as Frank relaxes a little more. He pops the decimated remains of his fry into his mouth and chews slowly, even if it isn't particularly necessary. He swallows to ask, "You approve?"

Bob shrugs. "Jon's happy – they make him happy, the three of them. After Tom and Cassie..." He trails off, not wanting to have to explain that cluster fuck. Jon's a great guy, open about just about everything, but those six months are completely off limits without his prior say so. Considering they were hell for everyone involved, Bob tired to respect Jon's decision. And since Jon didn't talk about it, Bob didn't.

He shrugs again. "Jon's happy."

Frank softens completely. When he smiles at Bob, it's a big open thing that makes Bob want to smile back; he does. "Yeah. Yeah, he is – they all are."

Silence falls over their table. They each pick at the fries, their fingers brushing every once in a while. Around them the shop is picking up, louder with the late lunch crowd pouring through the doors. But their waiter – a tall, dark haired guy who sometimes switches into an English accent – still makes his way back to the table to refill their coffees. He flirts lightly with Frank as he does it, more a gesture of familiarity and friendliness than interest, before turning and winking at Bob.

"Now, I like this one, Iero. Don't let him get away," he tells Frank before he's bounding off again. Of course, he really isn't bounding, but with legs the length of his, there's really no other way of describing his walk.

Bob blushes as Frank laughs. "Ryland's always had good taste," he tells Bob.

"Really?" Bob can't help but ask. He feels like such a tool for actually asking – he really hadn't meant to ask.

"Yeah, he does. His boyfriend, Alex? Is the sweetest guy I have ever met and is an awesome cook besides." Frank jerks his head toward the back of the room. Bob looks over to see the cook – who is totally the dude from Ray's lesson that morning, what the fuck? – carrying a couple of plates to the counter, Ryland swooping in for a kiss. Over the cheers from the counter area, Bob looks back at Frank, who winks at him. "I've learned to trust his judgment."

Bob blushes again. He takes a hasty sip of his coffee to try and cover, but the way Frank's eyes practically sparkle tells Bob that Frank isn't fooled. Still, despite the embarrassment, it's kind of nice that when Bob puts his coffee down and blatantly changes the subject, Frank goes along willingly.

|-|

They are making their way across town to a used comic book store that Frank knows when Bob receives a frantic text from Joe. Well, the text is actually from Andy's number, but Andy isn't the type to do frantic until something happens to his kit. And, since it is four days from his wedding, Bob's pretty sure that Andy really couldn't care less about his kit, much less be frantic about it.

"I'm really sorry about this," Bob apologizes again. He hates breaking plans without prior warning. Even for emergencies. Especially for those. "It probably has something to do with the wedding on Sunday..."

"Hey. It's ok," Frank interrupts. He's smiling at Bob again – Bob really can't get enough of his smile. "You go ahead and take care of whatever and we can meet up for dinner."

Bob smiles back at Frank, he can't really help it. He's a little relieved that Frank is taking this as easily as he is. In Bob's experience, guys don't like it when their dates bail on them, justifiable or not. Nathan, Bob's last boyfriend had been like that; it sucked.

"Thank you. That sounds great. Any place in particular that you wanted to go?" Bob asks as he gestures for Frank to trade phones with him.

Frank shrugs. "There's a new Thai place over on Rosemont that I've been wanting to try." He hands his phone over easily. His black nails are stark against the white of Bob's own phone.

"You talking about Bangkok?" Bob asks as he puts his number in Frank's phonebook. "Isn't that against the whole vegan thing though?"

"Eh, I'm not so strict that I won't eat good Thai," Frank says. He shrugs as they trade phones again. Then he laughs. "No, not really. I heard that they have a couple vegan specials. But, yeah. Bangkok. You know it?"

Bob nods, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "A couple of us tried it when they opened; it's pretty good. I wouldn't mind going back."

Frank grins. "Awesome. Six sound good?"

"Perfect," Bob grins back at Frank. They stand there smiling at each other until Bob's phone rings again with another text. "Right, sorry. I should go." Bob waves his phone awkwardly.

Frank laughs. "It's cool. See you at six?"

Bob nods. He waves down a cab that happens to be passing by. "Six."

"Awesome!" Frank says again. He bounces twice before he starts backing away with a wave.

He's still watching when Bob looks back when the cab's a block away.

|-|

"Bobert!" Joe exclaims when he opens the door. "Get your ass in here!" He doesn't wait for Bob to comply before he's grabbing Bob by the arm and yanking him into the apartment.

"What's the big emergency?" Bob asks as he kicks off his shoes and sets his bag down. Andy has issues with people wearing outdoor shoes indoors; Joe likes to rile him up by wearing slippers that look exactly like his sneakers. Bob tosses his coat over his bag before he follows Joe into the small living room.

"Hey, Bob. What're you doing here?" Andy asks as he walks into the room from the kitchen. He's wearing one of his three pairs of shorts and not much else. The tattoos on his legs are coming along nicely, though. "I thought you were on a date?"

"You texted me about some emergency," Bob answers. Then he frowns. "How'd you know I was on a date? We haven't talked in a week."

"Pete called." Joe's answer overpowers Andy's confused, "Emergency?"

Bob rolls his eyes. "I should have known. Mom'll be calling me next."

"Bobert! Bobert!" Joe exclaims. "You're getting married! Of course there's an emergency!"

Andy pulls Joe back against him and covers his mouth with his hand. "Wait. Since when are you getting married? You haven't even dated anyone in a year."

"Since Pete and Gerard ordered me a husband," Bob sighs. Andy stares at him, doing a pretty awesome fish imitation, even as he holds a squirming Joe still. "Yeah, I know. Pete and Gerard are idiots."

"And you're just going along with it?" Andy asks. Then he swears, jerking his hand away from Joe's mouth.

"You know I bite, dude," Joe says. "You brought that on yourself."

Andy wipes his hand down the front of Joe's shirt. "I take it you're the one who told Bob there was an emergency."

"There is! Joe exclaims. He twists around so he can look directly at Andy. "They went to Gabe!"

Andy blinks. Then he shakes his head. "Of course they did. We're talking about _Pete and Gerard_."

"Andy, you have to take this seriously. They. Went. To. Gabe," Joe says very, very seriously. Bob can see Andy fighting not to laugh at Joe. Joe can, too. "Andy!"

"Relax. If they went to Gabe, then there's a contract," Andy says. He rolls his eyes at his soon-to-be-husband's hysterics and Bob has to agree with him. They're all hoping that Joe goes back to his normal mellow self after the wedding. This spastic, easily excitable Joe is just plain weird.

Andy turns to Bob, eyes sharp. "You _have_ looked over the contract, haven't you?"

Bob feels his face flush as he looks down at his feet. He isn't avoiding Andy's totally creepy stare. No, he's just noting that he has a hole in his left sock, right at his big toe. "I..."

"I swear to fuck, Bryar. For a genius, you are seriously the dumbest person I have ever met," Andy snaps. "Why'd you sign the papers without reading the terms? You, of all people, should know better than that!"

"I didn't sign the contract – Pete and Gerard did. In _my_ name," Bob sighs. He can feel his shoulders creeping up around his ears, feeling like the naughty toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He hates feeling like a naughty toddler, especially when it wasn't actually his hand in the jar.

"But you're going along with all of this anyway," Andy pushes.

Bob shoves his hands into his pockets. "I just wanted a date for the wedding," he admits, voice softer than he'd ever willing admit to.

" _Fuck_ ," Andy curses, voice low. Bob couldn't agree more.

Joe, having freed himself from his fiancé's evil clutches, puts an arm around Bob's shoulders. He tugs Bob over to the couch. Joe's always been stronger than Bob ever thought he would be, especially for his size. "All right, dude. We're gonna sit right here and have a pow-wow. We need to make sure that you're doing this for the right reasons; we don't want you to do this just to make us happy."

Joe pushes Bob onto one end of the couch before curling up against the opposite arm himself. Joe glares at Andy until Andy sighs and plops down next to Joe. Joe turns back to Bob. "Ok. Tell us about him."

"Tell you about who?" Bob delays. He picks at the hem of his sweatshirt, trying to dislodge a loose thread without unraveling the whole seam. It isn't working as well as he'd like.

Andy kicks Bob in the thigh. "Don't play stupid, asshole."

Bob glares at him. "Fine, if you're _so_ concerned. His name is Frank Iero, he's Italian, short, and native Jersey. He plays guitar in shitty punk bands and works at We're So Starving. He's vegan with fake meat tendencies and he's loved at the best deli in town. He isn't weirded out by the math thing, holds doors open for old ladies, and wanted to spend all day with me." Bob pauses. "And he makes good coffee."

Joe and Andy look at each other for a long moment. It's one of those couplely-silent-conversations that always make Bob uncomfortable. Now isn't any different, might even be worse, so Bob's looking closely at the mesh-up of guitar, gaming, and drumming magazine on the coffee table when Joe speaks again.

"Oh, Bob," is all he says. It's how soft his voice is that drops Bob's stomach straight down to his toes.

Bob looks up in alarm. He knows that tone. Joe used it when Brian decided he didn't love Bob like he loves Matt. And again when Bob caught Nathan with the greasy kid from the Quikway on 16th. That tone never bodes well for Bob.

"You really like him, don't you?" Joe asks after a minute of staring at each other. Bob's sort of glad that Joe's mother and grandmother are in town early for the wedding because Joe never smokes up when his grandmame is in the same state as him for fear of his life (and rightly so. Joe's grandmame is a scary, scary woman). If Joe wasn't sober, Bob would probably have a lapful of Jew trying to smother his pain with love. And crazy ass curls.

"Shut up." Bob knows it's a weak protest, but he really doesn't want to deal with this right now. He didn't want to start falling for a tiny, tattooed, filthy-mouthed guitarist who smiles like the sun coming out on a cloudy winter day; who laughs like the links of a problem set falling into place, one by one by one.

He'd just wanted a date to the wedding.

|-|

Bob stays at the apartment longer than he should. Joe tires to console him, which mainly amounts to promises of serious ass kicking at Guitar Hero and an excess of food and Andy. Well, Andy mainly just scolds. Then laughs at Bob's pain and discomfort.

But as Andy sees Bob to the door a little after five, he gives Bob a tight hug. "Remember to look over the contract. And it probably wouldn't hurt to ask this Frank why he's decided to do all this." Andy smiles at the smirk on Bob's face. "Suck it up, Bryar. You survived four years of undergrad with Pierce as your advisor; you can survive this.

"Also, if he turns out to be extra-sketchy..."

"Because anyone who deals with Saporta is sketchy, seriously!" Joe calls from the kitchen.

"...I'll kick his ass," Andy continues. There's a reason Andy's one of Bob's oldest friends.

"I'll keep that in mind," Bob laughs. He ducks out the door before Andy's punch can connect.

It doesn't take long for Bob to catch a cab downtown. He spends the ride to the restaurant not thinking about the conversation in the apartment, or about how all of this just wasn't turning out the way he thought it would. In all honesty (and Bob tries to honest, at least with himself), Bob hadn't thought Pete and Gerard's plan would have amounted to anything. And even if it had, it wasn't supposed to be anything like this.

Bob doesn't fall for people like Frank Mostly, Bob does his best to avoid people like Frank. People like Frank make Bob think about Ray and Patrick, Gerard and Pete, Andy and Joe, about how each of those relationships shouldn't work, but do, despite all logic and reason. People like Frank make Bob think about commitment and forever and Bob doesn't do that. Not after Jepha. Brian. Nathan.

Bob scowls out the window. Fucking Gerard and Pete and their stupid hope inducing ideas. Fuckers.

"You all right there, buddy?" the cabbie asks.

Bob doesn't look up, but he can still feel the cabbie watching him from the rearview. "Fine." He glares out the window as they pass a group of teenagers stumbling out of a coffee shop, each one holding someone else's hands.

"Ok. You don't mind if I turn this up, do you? My nephew's band is starting to make some real noise now that they've picked up this new drummer," the cabbie keeps rambling as he turns up the radio. Unfortunately not high enough to drown him out.

Bob listens to the cabbie ramble for the rest of the ride to the restaurant. On any other day, if Bob was in any other mood than the one he's in now, he might have actually paid attention to the words. Mostly Bob just lets the words float on over his head. Occasionally he'll make an acknowledging sound. The cabbie doesn't seem to notice the difference.

By the time they pull up in front of Bangkok, Bob's stomach has twisted itself into knots. He isn't nervous, not exactly. It's more like he's anxious, but he isn't sure about what. He had been doing all right, not freaking out about the approaching wedding(s), but talking to Joe and Andy has stirred something loose, and Bob can't find a way to lock the thoughts back in.

Even with his thoughts fluttering through his mind like rice over a wedding couple (Bob really needs to straighten his brain out if he's coming up with similes like that), Bob climbs out of the taxi without hesitation. He pauses long enough to pull the fare out of his wallet, but then he's on the sidewalk, shutting the car door firmly behind him. Bob would totally rather deal with a budding ulcer than have to listen to another version of the cabbie's genealogical chart.

Frank is leaning against the brick wall between the restaurant and the hat store that share the same building. Bangkok is definitely a hole-in-the-wall, but the type of hole-in-the-wall that locals tend to hide from tourists.

Frank has his hands in his pockets, still for the first time Bob has seen, and is staring intently at his feet. Bob takes a moment to just observe him, watching the line of his shoulders, the dark fall of hair over his face, the lip ring and the scorpion tattoo just peaking up over his jacket collar, the tilt of his hips, the way his feet are planted firmly against the concrete.

He's totally not Bob's type at all.

Oh. _Fuck_.

|-|

The entire meal is awkward. Gone is the easy(ish) banter from their dinner the night before and from lunch, replaced with painful silences and random bursts of conversation from Frank. Bob's mind is someplace else completely. Frank starts babbling in earnest somewhere between the appetizers (spring rolls) and the entrees (Pad Thai – tofu for Frank, beef for Bob). Every time Frank stops, the resulting silence makes Bob want to crawl under the table and hide. He can't find any words to break it, and even his noncommittal grunts feel like dust in his throat.

When their waiter comes with the bill, they both reach for it. Defending himself from Pete has honed Bob's relaxes enough that he grabs it first. Frank opens his mouth to argue, but Bob just waves him off.

"It's on me." He tries for a smile, but ends up with something more like a grimace.

Frank looks like he still wants to argue, but he nods at Bob. He's frowning, eyes looking somewhere between the plate the bill is on and Bob's hand.

Bob winces, what smile he had managed sliding off of his face. He pulls out a couple of twenties and tosses them on top of the bill.

Frank reaches behind him for his jacket. He shrugs it on as he says, "I have to..." He still isn't looking at Bob.

"Right, right." Bob stands up and pulls his backpack up on one shoulder. He follows Frank out of the restaurant, waving at their waiter on the way.

Fall is coming on faster this year than Bob was expecting. He blames the chill in the air on the way he shivers against the silence that is still lingering between them. They stare at each other for a minute, just as awkward as they had been inside. Actually, it is worse, now that they don't have anything to distract them from the awkwardness. Bob mirrors Frank's pose, hands in pockets, shoulders up, and tries to think of something, anything to say.

"So," they both start. There's that moment of awkward laughter and Bob waves at Frank to go ahead. It isn't like Bob actually knows what he was going to say.

Frank runs his hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his head. "Right. Well, I have band rehearsal in an hour and..."

"No. Right. I understand," Bob interrupts, nodding. "I won't hold you up." He shifts on his feet, and his hand comes up to clutch at his backpack strap.

"Right." Frank bounces on his feet a couple of times, glancing down the block. "Right. So I'll call you or you. You can totally give me a call. Whenever."

Bob nods again. It's like his head isn't even attached to his body anymore. He's become one of those bobblehead dolls; he'll always have the same answer, no matter what. "Yeah. Sounds good."

Frank watches him for another moment before he nods back. He gives Bob this almost salute-wave, then he's heading off down the block, a dark silhouette against the city backdrop, night falling in the distance.

Bob watches him leave. That twisting knot in his stomach has turned to a solid-heavy mass. Bob can't help but think that there was something he was supposed to do, but nothing comes to mind.

|-|

Gerard and Pete pounce almost as soon as Bob's key hits the lock. Bob really, really needs new neighbors.

"You're back awfully early," Gerard comments from the doorway of his and Pete's apartment. Their hallway always reminds Bob of that hallway set from Friends, only less with the awful green shades and more with awful yellow shades. Really, really awful yellow shades that somehow always manage to clash with the basic black of Gerard's vamp-chic outfit.

"All alone, too," Pete points out helpfully. He leans around Gerard's shoulder to leer at Bob, all while he hands Gerard a mug of coffee.

Bob turns back to his door and snarls at the lock. He turns his key once to the left, once back to the right, and then to the left again. The lock snaps open easily. "Fuck you both." He pushes the door open, tugging hard to get his key out of the lock.

"Whoa, what's with the cranky? Things go that badly?" Gerard asks. Bob doesn't have to look back to know that he's standing up straight and giving Bob his oh-no!-I-have-to-save-everything-ever! face. Pete is probably frowning and biting his bottom lip and leaning into Gerard's shoulder. Bob's never figured out if Pete does that because he's giving Gerard support or if Pete's looking for support himself. Considering how much of a needy fuck Pete can be, Bob suspects the latter.

And perhaps Bob's reflecting anger unfairly here. Not that he particularly cares, considering how dirty he somehow feels, but. Whatever. Andy and Joe were right. And Bob has equations to work on.

"Everything went fine. I just have equations to work on and he had rehearsal. Also, I hate you both," Bob sighs. He kicks off his shoes, using the open door for balance, tossing his backpack down next to the worn Docs. Then he looks over at Pete and Gerard, who are looking at him exactly like he thought – knew – they would be.

"I want to see a copy of that contract. And don't try and tell me you don't have one, Wentz, I know better." Bob glares at them. It's too bad the two of them are so used to him because they're just blinking at him and he's pulling out one of his best glares – the one that promises fiery death for the dumb kids (adults) who fuck around with his kit and break things.

Bob is really good at glaring.

"The sooner the better, too," Bob finishes. He slams and locks his door in their shocked faces.

|-|

"The problem, Gee, the problem is that you get these ideas in your head and they're good, most of the time, or whatever, but you get them into your head. Then you stop thinking." Bob slams the contract down on the table in front of Gerard and Pete, looming over them. He cannot fucking believe they would pull this shit – yes, the two of them have done some completely stupid shit in the years he's known them (and known of them because, yes, he does remember Pete from Chicago, he just doesn't like to think about it), but this takes the metaphorical cake. "Because _this_? This is not something that comes about when a person is thinking. This is something that happens when you _stop_ thinking. Did you not think I would find out about this?"

Gerard frowns. "We just wanted to help, Bob. You were sad."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bob mutters. He closes his eyes and counts, slowly, to thirty. "How is tricking me into a false marriage helping, Gee?"

"It wouldn't have been false, Bob!" Pete protests. He puts an arm around Gerard's shoulders. "Frank's an awesome guy, he totally would honor your marriage."

"Wentz, entering into a marriage based on a contract that _does not have any legal ramifications_ makes the marriage _false_ ," Bob growls. "Also, it's lying to me! If Frank is such a fucking awesome guy, why the fuck didn't you come to me and say, 'Hey, Bob! We know this great guy! Meet up with him for lunch or something'?"

"You wouldn't have though," Gerard says. He and Pete had been trying for years to hook Bob up with people they thought were perfect for him; Bob hadn't always been receptive. Granted, half of those cases were just shitty timing and the rest were Pete's and Gerard's bad fucking taste. Bob's ideas of an awesome boyfriend and their ideas very rarely mesh.

"If you were honest and up front about it? Yes, I would have," Bob tells them. "Instead, you lie to me and try to trap me into a lifelong commitment with someone I've never met, but could have really liked. Now I can't trust any of you. Thanks for that."

|-|

Here's a snippet from the Bob's backstory that I was also considering:

The thing about music scenes is that there is always two or three people that everyone knows, and how you know those people is how you move around in the scene. It's almost like high society or high school, sort of, in a way that only counts for surface and flash. (Ok. It's totally like high society and high school.)

Chicago is not different in that regard. Bob is.

There are five 'totally have to know them' people in the Chicago scene. Bob only cares about two of them. The first is Pete Wentz, and Bob only cares about him in the ways that it applies to the safety of his kit and board. Because Wentz is a crazy spaz and things – important, _fragile_ things – tend to end up broken around him. The second person is Andy Hurley.

Bob's known Andy from the moment Bob first wandered onto the fringes of the scene. People'll talk about knowing Wentz or Nikoli, even at the fringes, _especially_ at the fringes, but for the drumming sect? Andy was the dude to know. Bob had first seen Andy play when Bob was still in high school, when he'd snuck out to see a show that wouldn't even have been worth it if Andy hadn't been the guy behind the kit. Even weighed down by the band – who had to be the worst musicians in the world – Andy managed to shine.

Bob didn't talk to Andy right away. First off, Bob was still just a kid in high school, the fat kid in the corner who liked to play drums and thought sound boards were just as important as – if not more – than the vocals.

|-|

Finally, here are my notes that I never had the chance to write into the story:

\- Bob is sensitive about being considered an idiot b/c he was falsely diagnosed with a learning disorder as a child – Bob just likes the numbers and doesn't really agree with letters and all that shit. He ended up dropping out of high school, then earning his GED after bumming around doing menial labor (Starbucks w/Jon?) and drumming in shitty bands. A math professor came into his job one day asking people to solve random ass equations for his work or whatever and Bob solved all of them. Even the ones the professor had been working on to solve for his paper/research or whatever. He talks Bob into going to college for a degree in math and then Bob is discovered as the next Charlie Epps (Numb3rs).

\- Gabe isn't a psycho creep who keeps people in his basement. He's actually dating Vicky-T and has visions ("from the Cobra, dude! Seriously, you don't fuck with shit like that.") of people who don't know each other, but are supposed to. Sometimes it ends in friendship or a business partnership, but most times it ends in love. That's how he ended up with Vicky-T, how Panic ended up together in their foursome, how Andy and Joe hooked up, how Greta married Bob Morris, and now it is Frank and Bob's turn.

(What Ray and Patrick, Mikey and Alicia, and Gerard and Pete don't know is that Gabe saw them getting together, but Vicky-T told him to let those relationships form on their own, especially since the only time Gabe tired to set Patrick up with Ray, Patrick ended up breaking Gabe's nose. Also, she thought it was tacky to send all of them little florescent purple cobras with gold chains and nametags of their significant others on them. Alex and Ryland suspect Gabe was high when he came up with that idea, but no proof has yet been found, even if Nate is hiding a couple of interesting sound clips on his laptop.)

\- Bob finds out that the whole contract thing is a lie and ditches Frank – won't go near the club or the bar or the bookstore, hides in the backroom when Frank comes into the store, won't speak to anyone about it – basically Bob alienates everyone and refocuses on his equations. After a couple of weeks of this, the crew decides they've had enough and kicks Bob's ass into gear.

\- Frank wants to take Bob out to dinner then to Pretty. Odd. for the band of the week (Frank's filling in for a friend). Bob was going to decline b/c of Three Cheers, but Gerard steps in and says that Patrick was going to fill in for Bob. Then Patrick says Bob has the day off Friday b/c of same lame excuse (Employee Appreciation Friday?), something really see through. Ray then tells Frank that he'd better take good care of Bob or Ray would kill him. Then invites Frank over for their (Ray/Patrick) weekly dinner party. Bob just mostly wants to kill everyone but Frank.


End file.
